Unveiling The Bridesmaid. Jessica Gilmore

over at the canvases. ‘They came to me freely.’

      Her forehead creased. ‘So why did you ask Brenda if I could work for you?’

      ‘Because I was planning on saying yes to Brenda’s offer anyway and this saves me the hassle of finding an assistant. Because I won’t mind how you organise your time as long as the archiving work gets done so this way you can pop out to look at venues or cakes or whatever else you need to do. Not to force you into anything. Nobody is keeping you here against your will, Rapunzel, there’s no escape ladder needed. You can leave at any time.’

      Hope looked over at the chaise, a frown still creasing her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought...you said you wouldn’t help me with the wedding and then this all happened so fast.’

      ‘I’m not helping you. I’m giving you time but that’s all you’ll get out of me. I have a model to find and paint, an exhibition to put on and an archive to explain to you and oversee. The wedding’s your problem, not mine. Unless you change your mind about the picture, in which case I’ll keep my end of the bargain and help you but, like I said, your decision. It’s not part of your duties here. I have no interest in a reluctant subject.’

      She took a visible deep breath, her eyes clouded, her forehead still wrinkled with thought. She was close to a decision but whether that decision was changing her mind and posing or walking out and telling him to go to hell he had no idea.

      It was intriguing, this unpredictability.

      ‘If I said yes...’ She stopped, her eyes wary again.

      He should be feeling triumphant. He almost had her, he could tell. But Hope McKenzie wasn’t like his usual subjects. They were all eager for him to tell their stories with his paintbrush—she was all secrets and disguises. ‘Before we go any further, I need you to know exactly what you’re getting into.’

      ‘I lie there and you paint me. Right?’ The words were belligerent but her eyes dark with fear.

      ‘It’s not easy being a life model. It’s a skill. You have to keep the same pose for hours. No complaining about being cold, or achy or hungry.’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘I asked each model to wear some jewellery that meant something to them. Something very personal.’ He pointed over at one canvas. ‘That girl there, Anna? She’s wearing pins in her hair she wore on her wedding day. This lady, Ameena, she’s wearing gold necklaces and bangles gifted to her by her parents when she emigrated to the US.’

      ‘And they have to be naked. I mean, I would have to be. Totally. I couldn’t, instead of jewellery have a scarf or something. It’s just...’

      ‘Sorry.’ And he was. It wasn’t easy for even the most seasoned model to lie there so exposed to him and even though his other models had been enthusiastic about the project they had still found posing difficult, embarrassment covered in a multitude of ways, by jokes, by attempted seduction, by detachment.

      ‘That’s okay.’

      It didn’t seem okay; her hands were twisting together in an attempt to hide a slight shake.

      ‘The last thing is probably the most important. If you model then I need you to think about sex. What it means to you, good and bad. I need you to think about that the whole time I paint you. I know that’s an odd request but it’s the theme of the paintings and it needs to show in your eyes, on your face. If it helps I can play any music you want, audiobooks, relaxation tapes—whatever makes you comfortable.’

      It was odd, he’d had this conversation many times before and he had never felt so like some kind of libertine before. Every other model had known exactly why she was there, had volunteered for this. It was business, not personal.

      But this time it felt horribly personal and he had no idea why.

      ‘Think about sex?’

      ‘Is that a problem?’

      ‘It might be.’ Her colour was even higher, rivalling the red of the chaise. ‘You see, I haven’t actually...I don’t...I’m not...what I’m trying to say is...’ she swallowed ‘...I’m a virgin. So I don’t think I can lie there and think about something I know nothing about. Do you?’

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘THANK YOU. NO, I see. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.’ Hope clicked her phone off and resisted the urge to throw it off the fire escape and let it smash into smithereens. Another hotel she could cross off her ‘possibles’ list. Three hours of calling and emailing and she still hadn’t made one appointment.

      She scanned the list she’d made the second she’d arrived home. It had all seemed so simple then.

      1. Find a dress

      2. Sort out flowers

      3. Ceremony—where????

      4. Read through Brenda’s six zillion emails

      5. Try and show Gael O’Connor that you’re competent and professional and not a complete basket case...

      Hope resisted the urge to bang her head on the wrought-iron railing she was propped up against. She might have managed to steal one day of wedding planning from Gael O’Connor’s manipulative hands but where had it got her? Every venue she had phoned had either laughed at her incredulously or sounded vaguely scandalised. ‘A wedding? In two weeks? Ma’am, this isn’t Vegas. I suggest you try City Hall.’ And as for a dress...you would think she had asked them to spin straw into gold, not supply one white dress, US size four.

      And yes, she could try City Hall. And she could pop into any one of a dozen shops and pull a dress off the racks and it would do. And she could book a table in a five-star restaurant and the food would be great. But it wouldn’t be special. It wouldn’t show Faith just how much Hope loved her. It wouldn’t make up for the fact that Faith would have no proud father walking her down the aisle, no mother in a preposterous hat wiping away tears and beaming proudly. Faith deserved the best and Hope had vowed nine years ago that she would have it. This wedding wasn’t going to beat her, no, not if it killed her. Her baby sister would have the finest and most romantic whirlwind wedding New York had ever seen. She just needed to work out how and where.

      Hope took a sip of coffee and stared at her laptop, balancing precariously on her open window ledge, hoping it would give her some much-needed inspiration. Maybe if she had spent a little more time actually in the city itself and less time either in the office or here, sunning herself on the fire escape outside her apartment window, she might actually have some unique and doable ideas. Okay. She was in the greatest city in the world, how could her mind be so blank? ‘New York,’ she muttered. ‘New York.’

      A ping from her laptop broke her half-hearted reverie and Hope looked across at it, sighing when she saw yet another email from Brenda flashing on her screen. What was going on? She had never seen her famously ice-cool boss this het up over anyone. Hunter had said that Gael knew everybody and what was it Brenda had whispered? He had the power to finish careers and destroy marriages? Remembering the mocking smile and the coldness in the blue-grey eyes, Hope didn’t doubt it.

      Setting her coffee cup to one side, she scrambled onto her knees and pulled up her internet browser. ‘Who exactly are you, Gael O’Connor?’ With a guilty look around, as if the starling on the rail above could see her snooping, Hope pressed Enter and waited. She wasn’t sure what to expect but it wasn’t the lines and lines of links that immediately filled her screen. Headlines, photos, articles—and a comprehensive Wikipedia entry.

      Gael O’Connor. Photographer. Blogger. Society darling. It looked as if he didn’t just know the New York scene—he dictated it, moving through it, camera at the ready, creating instant stars.

      Nowhere would say no to him. Nowhere would tell him that two weeks was impossible. No one would suggest that Gael O’Connor tried City Hall...

      Damn.